


The Distribution of Happiness

by oceansinmychest



Series: The Goldfish [1]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deleted Scenes, F/F, Missing Scene, One Shot, Smut, the goldfish oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 02:50:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11865108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: This is still not the happy ending she sought after.





	The Distribution of Happiness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beccarc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beccarc/gifts).



> As I mentioned in the conclusion of The Goldfish, I entertained the possibility of some one-shots stemming from that universe. Here's one of them. Special shoutout to beccarc for noticing one of the poems I used as a quote; with the stanza, I decided to tease out a larger possibility.

> ' And you - lustrous beneath moonlit tangled sheets - I throw back your bedcovers and see the distribution of my happiness '
> 
> _The Distribution of Happiness_ \- Robert Hass

This is what happens when the story cuts off too soon.

Side by side, she walks with the orderly that escorts her to the Devil's den. This is not the happy ending that she sought after. Rather, it's conflict accompanied by more conflict without the promise of any tender resolution. Consider Vera a glutton for punishment, but she's making her way back to the flame. Getting burnt is a familiar sensation. Better than diving into the unknown.

"Why do you keep allowing this?"

She asks Nurse Atwood, partially annoyed by the woman's compliance and mildly curious about the matter. Outside of Ferguson's room, they stand. Their shadows on the wall shift; they're always crooked, never able to portray the human form as true.

From her wallet, Vera produces a handsome offering. The young blonde flashes a smile that gives away nothing. She takes the bill and crumbles it up within her manicured grasp. She can't get Smiles' fox-like grin out of her head. Stubbornly, she shakes it off.

"I don't know. I don't care."

Nurse Atwood pockets the wad before tapping a knuckle on the thick wad of glass. Everything about this screams unethical. Unconventional.

"You've a visitor, Ferguson."

Boredom oozes from her tone. The door unlocks. Clicks. Atwood splays her fingers and holds her right hand out three times in rapid succession. A symbol for fifteen minutes. She disappears down the corridor. Plops down on a chair to count the waning hours.

Vera Bennett enters the clinically sterile room. Blue, blue eyes stare at the cracks in the ceiling: the plaster that chips away due to relentless budget cuts. T _his place is going under,_ she thinks to herself. It juxtaposes her career at Wentworth. At the absurdity, she offers a small smile.

“Ah, the little mouse wearing pants has returned to the lion's den. Have you come to gloat, dear Vera?”

A trace of cynicism infects her done but it's laced with a curtain of exhaustion. Sedated, there's a layer of calm thrown into the mix.

Vera's jaw grows uncomfortably tense. Her gaze flits down to her black, wool trousers. Long gone are the pleated skirts she used to wear. She swapped those for an upgrade that came with self-esteem. The Catholic school girl fantasies had never been a part of Vera's upbringing. Though she had been forced to wear the knee-highs and pleated skirts, she found her faith to be sorely lacking. Spared the scorn of many a nun, she made up for absence with obedience. So, what about Catholic Guilt? Well, that stayed.

Slowly, as though gravity pulls her to the center, Vera sits down by the resident who bookmarks her page and places her psychological thriller on the nightstand. Appropriate, but not at this time.

They sit together in this reserved silence that threatens to gobble them up. Vera chews on the inside of her cheek.

"Vera..." A resigned sigh. "This is not who I am."

"I know."

"Yet, you return."

"I do."

_I made a promise._

Hesitation guides the touch to follow. Nothing needs to be added to the conversation. Vera cups Joan's pale, sallow cheeks. It seems that the mouse has become the ringmaster, her tongue a whip to tame the lioness. Time and time again, she comes to this place, aware that she will never have her closure.

How does it feel to be romanticized? Vera finds this impossible to wonder since she's been a dreamer her entire life. She's put Joan up on a pedestal that tumbled down to perdition. You can't paint her into this damaged soul. Or maybe you can and maybe you do. _We're damned either way,_ Vera deduces.

The kiss is too sweet and she finds herself undeserving of that sweetness. Age old insecurities die hard. The curtain of Joan's hair hides their faces. So, they're swallowed up by the abyss: the words left unsaid and the hurt that stings.

Curiously, Joan watches through a half-lidded gaze. She assesses inherent the risk: the eminent danger of prying apart the ribs to reveal a still-beating heart. It's a pity Vera's already crushed it. She's cyanide disguised as sweet nectar. In a moment's notice, she reciprocates the kiss through tongue and teeth.

This is the fantasy life reimagined. Language is sacrificed in the name of action. The walls come crashing down, down, down. Vera lays her down on the off-white sheets. Petite hands caress her sides, the tempting swell of her hips. The crack-shot fluorescent lighting bestows Vera with a halo.

Joan smirks though the expression's devoured by Vera's insistent pecks. "Would you rather have music play?" Vera inquires, sounding breathless.

_Deathless._

"No... I... much prefer your tune."

So this is what it feels like to have two broken pieces come together. Uneven shards create a friction, form a harsh momentum that produces a stunning crescendo.

This is too much poetry, isn't it?

Although Vera's on top, Joan still leads. Their breasts touch, their fingers working in tandem. The zipper to Vera's pants emits a savage whine. Zzt, zzt, zzt. Down, they come. Her plain, grey panties issue their own brand of simplicity. Under the confines of her bra, her nipples harden.

Joan flips her over. She looms over this small woman who doesn't shrink away. She covers her well like the pretense of night. Her manipulation's served a purpose. Strong, lithe legs wrap around her waste. She sees her reflection in those dark eyes. The mirror shows her someone else.

Nails rake across the broad expanse of her back. She shivers from the scraping pain. Endures for the pleasure game. The hideous, ward-issues gown gets tugged off. Discarded in a lifeless pile alongside the remains of Vera's outfit. Joan watches her. Waits for the next move.

Once easy to decode, Joan's intricacy resembled a Rubik's cube. It's a Pandora's Box, issuing a world of trouble, but they're still here in the present. Now, Vera embodies the vines that wrap around her body. Hold her tight and vocalize her ever present need.

Coiled together, they twist and they turn, as though they're on a bed of coals. Vera wraps around her, ever present and all-consuming. In this struggle, Joan ends up on her back again – tastes the mat and the foil the strikes her down

"Turn around," Joan commands, voice hoarse.

"What?"

Compliance offers up a glimpse of what once was. Shyly, she re-positions herself. Turns around so that her ass entices from above. A wetness forms between her legs, warm and heady. Joan can smell her arousal and it's all too enticing.

_You'll always be destroyed by my hand, Vera._

Vera's cheek rubs against Joan's pale thigh. Deft fingers squeeze pliant muscle that tenses from her nimble touch. She buries her face there, inhaling the scent of her.

Face to altar, altar to face, two halves form a whole. It's veneration to the core.

Bodies tangled together, this is infinity on high. She spreads her legs wider. Joan claws into her upper thighs. Threatens to dismantle her with a languorous sweep of her tongue.

Tension ebbs away. A dull throb serves as a reminder of their passion. This is a temporary fix, an allocated bliss. Joan growls, low and throaty, a near bestial sound. In the aftermath, vibrations burrow into Vera's core. Soft lips caress her clit. Languid strokes of the tongue trace her slit up and down – taunting, teasing.

Vera's fingers creep around to stroke Joan. A knuckle grazes her cunt that's wet from reveling in her underling's moans and gasps for air. Hungry for the feast, Vera drives in. Mesmerized by the taste of her, she kisses and licks every bit. In between the gusto of her worship, she mumbles her reverence.

"You've had me. You've always had me."

An indescribable tenderness commemorates her deeds. Joan's fingers slip inside of her and Vera reciprocates until they're one, unable to differentiate themselves from one another.

When they come in unison, it's a stifled gasp and a spasm like no other. A blinding, white light proves to be all consume. Joan squeezes Vera's tantalizing rear; Vera digs her nails into those marble thighs, her mouth glued to the altarpiece. 

You can still show without giving away too much.

It's past the fifteen minute mark, but Nurse Atwood lets them have this ruinous thing.

  
  


 


End file.
